Intercepts

by T.J. Payne

I remember that I am somebody. Or was somebody. But I do not remember who. It is easier to forget. It hurts less.

As if someone had their hand on the volume control inside her head, that tone steadily became quieter and quieter. Before Riley knew it, all sound became a distant murmur, as if she were sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool. While concentrating on her hearing and the pain in her head, she barely noticed that her hands had grown numb.

There was no one big, climactic moment that symbolized the end of the friendships. No fight, no jealousy, no nothing. Just a slow-drying cement around Riley’s ankles that prevented her from putting forth the effort to bridge the growing gaps.

Children or not, people were going to be people. They’d be lazy if you let them. They’d be catty if you allowed it. And they’d blame you if they could.

We think we can deal. But grief is this fucking monsoon. And it just doesn’t stop. And it fills our reservoir. And fills it. And fills it.

Part of himself fell away the moment he released her, as if whatever tactile connection the hug gave them was her only remaining safety line.

He hoped she’d look up and meet his gaze, and then she’d see and feel his love for her and his shame for all that he’d put her through.

But some pain runs deeper. Some pain lingers. It sticks to you in the darkness, and the mind cannot push it away. Pain such as the pain of watching your family suffer. And the pain of knowing they suffered because of you. That pain will never leave,”

Ironically, she felt less lonely when she was by herself.

The voice was never vague. It rang inside her head with a firmness and clarity.

But mostly, Riley knew that she had parents who loved her. They never really said it. They didn’t need to. She felt it. And that was enough.

A daughter who had endured so much, and yet overcome it with a remarkable strength and self-confidence. A daughter who had every right for self-pity and crippling remorse but refused to indulge in such emotions.